butterflies in my tummybox

I hate physical manifestations
of emotions
and NO I don't mean our conscious
actions
of holding, pressing, interlocking
so I can manifest, physically for you
how it feels to press my heart
against yours

No, it is those subconscious
unconscious
belly flip flops that I can not
control
and I cannot
stomach
hitting my chest like a head
cold
or a stategically placed slug
to the gut
The physical discomfort of
needing
you
hits me harder than any
winter virus
ever could.

(how can it hurt this bad to feel this good?)

Hurt is the wrong word though
the staggering in my breath
when I think about you
is not a pain
but the contraction of my lung's
already shallow depth
cannot be good for me
You press you hand against
my chest
and whisper that it is fast
but I am slow
so instead of devouring you
I press my hand against
your heart
and we connect bloodlines
that way
tracing from our thumbs
to our central nervous system
Blood pumping hard to make
up for the fact that

I
cannot
breathe

From where I sit
I cannot see your face
so I study the movement
of your foot
keeping time to the music
and I long to feel it
travelling up my leg
in my bed
rustling me from sleep
just so that I know
you're holding me still

but not holding me still
I want to run with you
loosen those muscles
that tigthen when you
smile
That clench together when
I watch you come alive in your art
3am and you're no longer tired
in fact you're wired
painstakingly studying each note
on the page
The way I study you when you play
and you are amazed
that you can amaze anyone
this much
and even still it is enough
for me that our legs
touch
while you compose your next
masterpiece
and I am working on my own feat

because you amaze me so
much that now I'm inspired
now I'm wired
3am and this physical manifestation
of my emotions
bleeds from my pen to the page

and this one does not hurt

though words hold that power
And I count each hour that goes by
until I know I have to tear myself from
this world that is just you and me
and I know I should sleep first
so with each passing hour I rationalize
1am
Seven hours is plenty of sleep
3am
Five hours will do
5am
I've gotten by on three before
7am

I don't want to unplug
from you
and you're shower is unfamiliar
and you're drifting
you're gone
standby mode
until I return
sleeping so that I can go to work
and I wonder if I'd be able
to remove myself
if you didn't
and I am terrified
that I have to go about
my day like I'm not
so preoccupied by you
that my brain squeezes
around the memory of your
smile
like a winning scratch ticket in my hand
and part of me
sleeps in that bed with you
all day
feeling the ghost
of your foot
on my thigh